


frosted over

by Rimetin



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimetin/pseuds/Rimetin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous original shorts, originally published on my tumblr. Various genres, situations, etc. See notes of each chapter for more info.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/41661535489/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

"Who are you?"

The voice belongs to a tiny creature, both light and dark and strangely full of life. It looks at him, its eyes - that’s what _they_ called them, the two sparkling lenses at the top - wide open, with depth and emotion he can never grasp.

But no fear.

He stands up, towering over the tiny creature, shadowing it with his might.

I AM DESTRUCTION.

It doesn’t even blink. “Whose destruction?”

He is silent. No one has ever asked that. No one has ever asked  _anything_ ; they have all ran, skittered away screaming and shouting all in the wrong directions, panicked and lost and finally been put out of their misery. By him, by  _them_ , by the land. By something, eventually. So he has never wondered - what is he? Whose destruction? By whose will?

How does the creature know to ask?

Finally, he answers.

NOT YOURS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this, I drew inspiration from Hayao Miyazaki’s works, mostly Laputa: Castle in the Sky (which happens to be my favorite Ghibli movie, by the way). Just a quick idea I turned into a drabble. Maybe I’ll expand on it later, although it is kinda cliched.


	2. The Banquet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/42578749240/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

The little road is empty, covered by snow. At the end of it, beyond the numerous tiny candles, there is light - a huge bonfire, merry and warm. The sounds of a banquet rise and fall, talking and laughing and music echoing throughout the forest.

She stands on the tips of her toes on a rock by the road, but still can’t see what is past the trees and into that clearing: only light and an occasional shadow.

“You may not enter.”

She turns, startled, to look at the speaker: a gentleman, dressed in a cloak and leaning on an oaken staff taller than he is. At the end of it is a lit candle, just like the ones on the side of the road, guiding the path to the forest clearing.

She straightens, proud, chin up. “And why is that?”

The man regards her in a way that sends shivers down her spine. It’s not hostile; not even exasperated. She doesn’t know what it is.

“It is not yet your time.”

She snorts. “My time for what? Start making some sense.”

He keeps his gaze on her, unblinking. “You may not enter.”

She shivers, and not from the cold. “And if I try, you will stop me?”

He is silent, and she weighs her options. He isn’t blocking the path at all: she could easily run past him, all the way down the road and into the clearing. The banquet seems to call to her, beckoning her to join. It’s like a magnet drawing her in.

Lost in though, his answer catches her off guard.

“I said you may not. I never said you could not.”

She blinks, then lets out a derisive snort. “What are you, an English teacher?”

She steps up to him, then past him, and true enough - he doesn’t try to stop her. The path is wide open for her to traverse, candles flickering merrily. The sounds from the clearing telling her to hurry, the real fun is just starting.

She steps onto the road, onto the crust. It doesn’t give away under her weight, and the step gives her the strangest feeling: the feeling of lightness, of joy. She takes another, giddy, then another, and laughs out loud. The sounds of the banquet seem louder, shutting out all other sounds. Blood rushes in her ears and she can only see the light at the end of the road, the merry little candles urging her to go on.

Engrossed in the sensation, she misses the man’s final words.

“But if you enter, you may never return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spirit and god banquets are always interesting to me. I really mythologies in general, but especially all the kinds of parties and banquets spirits and gods throw. (Case in point, Norse lore. Also, Tove Jansson’s Moomins.) I’ve also taken a liking to short stories with a very ambiguous protagonist. They’re fun.


	3. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/43145677075/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

It’s an empty world, now.

Literally empty. No sun, no stars, not even the cycle of night and day. Every constant she ever knew, gone.

Just emptiness, slowly rusting away.

Emptiness, unlike they always assumed, is not complete darkness. It’s not an abyss, dark as the endless space, or deep as the universe. It’s light, and shallow, and nothing, and most of all it doesn’t make sense. It’s simply nothing, nothing at all: soon, not even her.

It is, she supposes, fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, in essence just venting piece. I was leaving on a trip, and had to kill some time.


	4. you shouldn't have done that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/45690828821/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

“W-wait! Wait, I’m sorry!”

 _Sorry?_ Isaac doesn’t register the word. The man’s voice is just intelligible babbling in his ears, a mix of gurgling and white noise, drowned in the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Before him isn’t a man: it’s just a sorry excuse for one, crawling and crying and trying to run from responsibility.

Isaac doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The man sobs as Isaac steps closer, calmly stands over him and points down. And even still, the wretch tries to plead.

“Please, I didn’t mean it! I’ll make up for it! He wasn’t even seriously hurt, I…”

Those words, they cut through the noise, crawl to his spine, make him tense and his hair stand up on end. _Not seriously hurt?_

Before him isn’t a man: it’s the scene from half an hour ago. A boy, sprawled on the ground, fair hair all tangled and all over the place. Covering the bloody mess that used to be the brightest blue eyes. Just a boy, a precious friend, cut and violated and left to die. _  
_

No, ‘not seriously hurt’.

Worse.

The man still has the nerve to plead. “Please, I swear–”

“Shut up.” Isaac’s voice is clear, and cold, ringing in the silence like struck metal. The man sobs and tries to crawl up, one final attempt at escape.

Isaac won’t let him. He stands still, eyes fixed on the target, and points.

Pulls the trigger, and never even blinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaac, an old RP character of mine. This is the incarnation reworked for one of my larger infinity projects. He’s ridiculously devoted to his friends, particularly a couple, and uh. He has some issues. For some reason, writing gory and angsty stuff like this has a calming effect on me? I actually wish I could’ve made it gorier. Well, maybe I’ll devote a drabble just to describing Jonah’s unfortunate situation.


	5. "Wait, were you being sarcastic or…?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [two](http://writeworld.org/post/44215848397/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words) writeworld [prompts](http://writeworld.org/post/44297266411/wait-were-you-being-sarcastic-or).

Andy’s smile never falters. “Nope. Dead serious.”

Jeff swallows, hard. The air seems thicker, now, weighing down on him, heavy, harder to breathe. He’s very, very aware of his quickening pulse, and his heavy breathing, and the sweat forming in his armpits, on his temples. Extremely aware. And none of it gets any better under Andy’s merciless, amused gaze.

And that goddamned grin.

“So?”

“I–”

Breathing gets in the way. Jeff flushes, stammering out something, a string of syllables even he can’t make sense of once they’re out. Something along the lines of _you can’t ask me that help this is all wrong I need to get out let me out I–_

A hand sets of his shoulder, firm and steady. Andy holds– no, Andy _stands_ at arm’s length. Stands still, smiling, reassuring. Not grinning anymore, but smiling: warm and… well… warm. Steady.

“Easy there, Jefferson. It’s just a question. Breathe.”

Jeff would like to point out it’s more than ‘just a question’. So, so much more. But he takes the advice, closes his eyes for a moment, draws in a a few deep breaths. Sweet, calming oxygen, rich with scents of the city and… well.

When he opens his eyes, the playful grin is back.

“Well?”

“I…” Jeff hesistates one more moment. One short moment. He really should take time to think this through, he really should. It’s not an idea he’d ever consider, really, if the person asking was any other than Andy. And what have they said about not letting himself be pressured into anything?

_Fuck that._ He draws one more breath, one that fills his lungs to the brim with false reassurance and once in a lifetime chances and– _Andy._

“Ok. I’m in.”

When he sees Andy’s grin widen, and the dangerous glint return to his eyes, all Jeff can do is wonder what the hell he’s gotten himself into now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mixture of two blocks from writeworld. I wanted to write something really ambiguous, just the kind of thing I myself find infuriating to read. I always want to know exactly what’s going on, and in this… well, even I'm not sure. It’s up to you, and honestly I love when people have their own interpretations. But this was fun to write.


	6. Copy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/44703919518/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

She pants, heart pounding, blood rushing, adrenaline pumping into her veins. Hands grip the metal bar hard, knuckles white. Hair gets in her eyes, sticks to the sweat and dirt on her face, mixes with the quickly forming black and blue marks peppering her skin.

She blinks sweat and hair out of her eyes, staring down at _her_ , a burning in her chest. Hands grip the bar tighter.

“You… worthless… copy!”

_She_ looks up, gray eyes full and blazing. _She_ opens her mouth, closes it, the opens again. Fish out of water, drowning on dry land. _Her_ knuckles are white, too; grasping at dirt, wanting to crawl away. Hatred in _her_ eyes.

She spits on _her_. Hands grip the bar even tighter, raise it above her head. Then bring it down, an angry squish and clonk against _her_. It’s disgusting.

“How dare you try– try–”

“Try what?” _She_ spits, now. Broken teeth and blood, and words of venom. It makes her skin crawl, like spiders running on her skin, getting into her ears and eyes and _everywhere_ and killing her slowly, doubt and rage hand in hand. “Take what belongs to me?”

_She_ gets up, wiping at her mouth. Spits more teeth and toned-down blood and directs unfocused eyes at her, gray burning bright. Fire from the ashes.

“ _You_ ’re the copy!”

_She_ steps closer, angry, defiant. Grabs at the bar, brings her close.

She acts on instinct: yanks the bar free, swishes it at _her_. Then again. And again. She beats _her_ down, blood and bits and fluids in the air. Drowns in the _clonks_ and _squishes_ and _splashes_ and _red._ Mindlessly strikes and thrusts with all her strength. All her rage and fear and anguish into the blows, until there is none left.

She sinks down beside the bloody mess, now a memory. Tears mix with blood, streams of liquid metal on her face.

Sobs echo off the low roof.

_“I am the real one…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venting, somewhat. I wanted to try something new, play with pronouns and stuff. It’s always hard to write a text in English with people of the same gender: I thought I’d take it a step further, trying to distiguish between two of the same person. Ended up a silly artsy piece, but eh. As an experiment, not a total failure.


	7. From the Corner of His Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/47790733622/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words).

He saw it from the corner of his eye.

It darted around the room, from the floor to the ceiling, door to window. One moment it hovered around the upper corner of the giant wardrobe, the next it was hiding behind the legs of his chair.

He didn’t dare look at it, lest it notice and scurry away, never to be seen again. It was a delicate creature, he knew: he’d heard the stories, absorbed all of them like a sponge. In his life he’d never wanted anything more than to just a chance to _see_ one - and now, it was within his reach. Close enough to _touch_.

He got up, slowly, calmly, and walked to the door. He could feel it watching, saw the little curious light glinting as it hovered closer. It thought he hadn’t seen it yet. It was watching for an opportunity, just like he was: it to escape from the door it thought he was going to open, and he to catch it before it could get away.

He reached for the doorknob, keeping his eyes firmly to the front. Had it guessed what he was planning? Was it clever enough to work it out?

He turned the knob.

In an instant, it reacted. It dashed to the door, trying to squeeze through the tiny crack between it and the frame. But he was faster. He pushed the door shut with his shoulder, both hands frantically grabbing at it. He caged it in his fingers, firmly, but not squeezing too hard - he didn’t want to hurt it.

It wriggled in his grip, first furiously, then gradually calmed until all he could feel was an occasional tremble. Its light shone through his fingers, and he watched in fascination. All those people who had never even bothered to look, all those times they called it just a story… He felt sorry for them.

Now, when it was in his hands, it was so beautiful, so real, so _vibrant._ Oh, if only there was a way he could look at it directly, without it getting away…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a directory of old writeworld prompts that at the time of their publishing have given me some sort of idea, but haven’t a) had time to write it out b) it hasn’t really gotten a definite shape, so couldn’t write it out. I go back to it when I feel like writing but have nothing to go on. This is one of those, an old idea that only took shape much later and could be written out. I really like this one; might continue or expand on it sometime.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [tumblr prompt](http://get-scribbling.tumblr.com/post/45990170913/write-about-a-bow-tie-include-it-somewhere-in-a).

“Hey, cool bowtie.”

She looks up, meeting the glinting eyes in the tanned face. He gestures at her neck.

“Cause bowties are cool, right?”

She can’t help laughing. “That Doctor Who crap doesn’t work on me, you know.”

He looks sheepish, then shrugs. “I figured you for a fellow fan, sorry.”

He turns to walk away, but she grabs a hold of his elbow. The rolled-up sleeve feels soft to her touch: soft in the way that an old, worn, and most of all loved garment should.

“No, no, I am. It’s kinda refreshing to have someone recognise that, actually: most people just figure me for a ‘dirty hipster’.”

He turns back, eyebrow raised. When he sees the smile radiating sincerity, his own lips curl to match.

“Mind if I sit?” He gestures to the free seat opposite her. She nods.

“Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been going through some writing prompt archives, and upon seeing the bowtie prompt on get-scribbling this popped to my head. Not really sure where I was going with it and thus if I succeeded in what I tried, but eh. Also I still don't know how to use English in certain contexts. Negative questions throw me off.


	9. "You’re not going to get anywhere staring at my grave, you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [writeworld prompt](http://writeworld.org/post/125000586614/youre-not-going-to-get-anywhere-staring-at-my).

“Shut up,” Jerome snapped.

Irvin stuck out his tongue at him. “Seriously. I’d like to get back to the eternal paradise, if you don’t mind.”

“You never made it there in the first place,” Jerome retorted, without bothering to open his eyes. “And which one of us is the medium who actually knows what he’s doing and which the clueless ghost stuck in between worlds?”

“You say it like it’s my fault.” Irvin flopped his incorporeal self down on the gravestone and drew his knees to his chest, perching on it like a bird. 

“We don’t know it’s not.”

If he’d bothered to look, Jerome might have regretted those words. Irvin’s face twisted into a look of hurt, then grief, then anger. “Hell, man. I had to watch _my own funeral_. Do you know how fucked up that was?”

When Jerome didn’t answer, he furrowed his brow and leaned forward, hands on either side of his mouth to amplify the sound. “Hellooo? Earth to– no wait. Limbo calling mr. mighty medium, please answer! Hello? Helloo?”

As if on cue, Jerome collapsed on the grass, narrowly avoiding the graves on either side of him. His now open eyes were glazed over and his hands were balled into fists so tight his knuckles had turned white.

“Well,” Irvin blinked down at him, still perched on top of his own gravestone. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go a route less traveled with this prompt. Or, what I perceive might be less common. None of that oh-i-died-please-stop-mourning-me stuff. Dunno where the heck this went though.


End file.
